


Side Effects

by Poet_Anderson



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Vomiting, conversion therapy, inaccurate portrayal of psychiatry, insane asylum, like every kind you can think of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22438642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poet_Anderson/pseuds/Poet_Anderson
Summary: “Baxter Pentecost, you are a disturbed individual and don’t seem to understand the consequences of your actions. In light of your youth and the gravity of your affliction, I very much doubt prison will do anything except worsen your affliction. You will be hospitalized until you are no longer deemed a threat to yourself or others.I pray for your well-being.”
Relationships: Angel Dust & Charlie Magne, Charlie Magne & Lucifer Magne, Charlie Magne & Vaggie
Comments: 29
Kudos: 36
Collections: Writers of Hell





	1. Panopticon

**Author's Note:**

> names clarification:  
> Flores - Vaggie  
> Lewis - Husk
> 
> enjoy!

The clothes he got upon arriving at the hospital are made of rough white linen. The ugly grey pants have an elastic waist that digs into his flesh, and the slip-on shoes push against his toes with every step he takes. His squeaking footsteps echo throughout the sterile halls. He hears the double doors of the secured ward close behind him. Nurse Flores, who has been guiding him through the entire hospital intake, grabs her key chain and opens the door of the room where he will be staying for an indeterminate period. Until he’s cured. Of what, Baxter isn’t sure. 

Baxter tentatively enters the small space and looks around. In all honesty, it’s just a cell. There’s a lock on the outside and a small mesh glass window in the door. A closet in the corner. A metal frame cot with a thin, worn out mattress. A wooden desk and chair.  
A tall narrow window with bars looks out upon the gardens of the hospital. Likely its placement was intended to let patients enjoy the landscaped scenery from their rooms. However the cold of winter has turned everything a depressing, lifeless grey, resulting in the opposite effect a well-meaning architect had intended for.  
Flores is standing in the doorway, quietly observing him.

“What’s going to happen now?” he says, not turning to her.

“You’ll have some time to unpack your belongings, perhaps rest for a while. I will come get you when it’s time for dinner. After that, you’ll meet your primary psychiatrist.”

“No, I mean- when do I get to leave?”

“Your therapist will assess what kind of treatment you will receive.”

“But I don’t need treatment! I’m not crazy.”

The nurse looks at him with a polite expression. The kind one gives when something blatantly untrue is said but one can't bothered to go against it.  
“Dinner will be served in about 90 minutes. Until then, Baxter.” She closes the door and Baxter hears the lock closing. He drops himself on the bed and the bed groans under his weight. Baxter groans as well, but out of frustration. He’s tired but he needs to stay observant. He needs to comply, show he’s well fit to participate in the world.

He pushes himself up and walks to the small suitcase that was placed on the desk and rummages through it. His father must have packed it for him, all contents chosen with care. Several college books on chemical and mechanical engineering. A transistor radio but no headphones. Confiscated, then. Too much risk of injury to himself or others. The cord can be used to throttle someone's neck. Would the copper plastic cord be strong enough for that?

Baxter doesn't feel much for the idea that they've been going through his stuff. It means that they'll go through his stuff here as well. Random room searches. His radio hasn't been taken but there is no stopping the staff from taking it from him if they desire to.

He needs to stay on guard. Show no signs of disobedience.

An ice chill runs down his spine. Baxter thinks of a prison design he read about once, the panopticon. A prison designed in such a manner the inmates could never know if they were observed or not. If these people have no objections to room searches, it's not much of a stretch to assume they'd take more extreme measures to ensure the good behavior of their patients. A bug, for instance.

He looks up at the bright light bulb. It's encased within a metal frame. He can't access it without a screw driver.  
He needs to stay on guard. Baxter may not know the exact details but he knows, much like a prisoner in a panopticon, that he is at risk of surveillance 24/7.  
Baxter looks around again. There’s not much to see. He lies down on the bed, deciding to take the nurse’s advice. He drifts in and out of consciousness for the next hour or so, a sense of unease and anxiety permeating his thoughts, until he hears the clicking of a lock and a door opening.  
He instantly sits up straight. The nurse doesn’t seem fazed by his caution, though she stands still in the door opening.

“I hope you slept well,” she says, with a professional but friendly voice.

"What time is it?" His voice is hoarse, and he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

Flores takes a few steps forward to him. “Six o’clock. They’re serving dinner in the communal area, I’ll show you the way.”

The communal area has an unexpectedly nonthreatening atmosphere. It’s a large, rectangular hall with an open design. High windows on both sides let in lots of light and spread throughout are tables of varying sizes with chairs. Flores guides him to a table that's empty aside from a grumpy looking orderly who pays Baxter no heed, and then she leaves to grab his dinner for him from the kitchen, a separate room.

Baxter looks around, to his fellow inpatients, to the orderlies in uniforms.

It looks like...well, it looks like a nuthouse. He hears people moaning and groaning, sees others rocking back and forth lost in their own world. Some are apathetic and don't move at all. And then the orderlies, the nurses. In the corners, observing. Always watching.

So much noise. So many smells. He has to retch. The smell of overused cleaning products, poorly made food and bodily fluids-

It's too much. Baxter tenses up and grabs the sides from the table with white knuckles. He breathes through his mouth, avoids thinking about his environment and how he got himself into this mess.  
Flores returns to him at that moment, bringing with her a plate of steaming vegetables and potatoes. She notices his panic immediately. She lays a hand on his shoulder and Baxter draws away instinctively. He can't control his breathing. She says something. He can't hear it.

_Too much too much too much_

She's saying something

_Baxter_

_Baxter_

He doesn't want to be here. He needs to leave. He's gonna die if he stays here any longer. Someone grabs him by the arm and pulls him up from the chair. He tries to struggle from their grip but it just gets stronger. _Let go_ , he thinks. _Let me go. I want to go home. Let go-_

"Baxter. Do you know where you are?"

"In the hospital."

"Do you know where in the hospital?"

He shakes his head.

"I'm doctor Lucius Magne. You're in my office."

Oh. "You're a psychiatrist. You're going to say what's wrong with me."

Magne sits in a brown leather office chair and leans forward, his folded hands resting on the desk. "I'm going to help you get better. To do that, I need to know how to help you."

"You can't help me."

"Give it a try, won't you?"

"I wanna go home."

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

Baxter looks down, ashamed. He silently berates himself for the honest answer; of course that’s not an option, he damn well knows that. He can’t afford to slip up again, he’s already in over his head as it is.

"You had a panic attack, Baxter. Do you have those often?"

Baxter stays silent. What should he say? Not the truth, that’s for sure. Something that will not alert the doctor but not too suspicious that it seems like a lie.

"Sometimes."

Magne nods at that and scribbles something in a notebook.

“What do you like to do for fun?”

Baxter stares at the doctor, thrown off by the non sequitur. He shifts in his chair. His past-times are difficult to understand for layman, no point in trying to explain it.

“Uh, I like to do science experiments.”

“I see. Did your father inspire your interest in chemistry?”

“I- I guess.”

“He must be proud of you for getting accepted to M.I.T..”

Baxter smiles shyly, but with sincerity. “Yeah, they both were when they saw the acceptance letter.”

"Do you like it at college?"

Baxter has to think about that. He likes the facilities. The laboratories. Being present for cutting edge science. The lectures are boring and unpleasant though, and Baxter has barely spoken to any other students - but he can't say that, Magne will think he's a freak.

"Yes, I like it."

They continue to talk like that; Magne asking questions about his mental state, Baxter trying to cater to his assumptions. It’s difficult. He’s always been an honest guy and has rarely had to consider the effect of his words. 

_____________________________________________________________

"I believe that's enough for today, you must be tired." Magne stands up and walks with Baxter to the exit of the administrative wing, where nurse Flores is waiting to chaperone him back to his cell once again.  
He sincerely hopes this is just while he's settling in.  
_Settling in_ , a small and annoying voice in the back of his head says, _I thought you had plans to get out soon?_  
Baxter clenches his jaw. Of course he will, but he isn’t stupid enough to believe he’ll be released in the coming days. 

When they arrive at his room the nurse gives him a pill and a small cup of water. "It's to help you sleep," she explains.

Baxter isn't sure if he's got a choice in there matter. Resistance would only make matters worse. He swallows the sedative in one awkward gulp.

"The pajamas are in the closet. Lewis will wake you up in the morning."

“The orderly who was sitting next to you during dinner. He walked with us to doctor Magne’s office.” She explains when Baxter stares at her cluelessly.

Flores looks at him with an emotion he can’t place, and then bids him goodnight. The door slams shut and Baxter is alone. He sits down on the bed and thinks about what happens. A massive fuck-up, a disastrous first impression, is what it was. The first drop on a continuing downwards trajectory. He needs to focus on damage control from this point on. It may be too late to shape the staff’s opinion on him but it’s still early, perhaps he can prevent a definitive unfavorable diagnosis. The best treatment is prevention, he reasons, so he needs to avoid being put in a situation similar to the one of today. He needs to stay clear of the common room. Minimize interaction with other patients.

He feels calmer now that he has a method of approach. More in control. He lies down on his side, with his face towards the door. The sedative is beginning to work, his eyelids feel heavy. 

He dreams about drowning.

_____________________________________________________________

_Patient is twenty years old. Completed grades k-12. Discontinued organic chemistry bachelor after sophomore year. No prior history of violence or trouble with the law. Patient is convicted of assault in the second degree. Victim was predominantly injured in the face, with significant bruising on the upper torso. Patient is socially averse, though observant and deliberate with his answers. Prolonged mental instability after the passing of his mother may have caused an extreme reaction to stressful stimuli. Further assessment is needed. Current diagnoses: anxiety reaction, passive aggressive personality_

Lucius Magne leans back in his chair and resists the urge to yawn. He’s been at work since nine in the morning and the acidic coffee from the break room can only do so much to curb his fatigue. The ugly, unwieldy typewriter in front of him is quietly judging his lackluster attitude. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. If he doesn’t finish the initial report this evening he will have to assess the boy again. That would only lead to more resistance from his side. If he was honest, the boy seemed rather unremarkable. Timid and frightened, it was difficult to imagine him ever having the courage to stand up for himself. Yet Lucius knows not to underestimate his patients. He seemed to regain himself quickly after losing his composure in the dining hall. Charlotte, after listening to the tapes of today’s session, had noted he was choosing his answer carefully. She had suggested he was distancing himself from emotions to deal with past traumas - textbook Jungian analysis.

_Clever girl_. A fond smile softens Lucius’ face when he thinks of his daughter. So determined and naive. So much still to learn. Failure was ahead of her. A trial by fire, from which she would emerge victorious and stronger than ever. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then resumes his report on Baxter Pentecost without pausing until its completion late at night.


	2. Could Be Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: homophobia, conversion therapy, vomiting

Baxter jolts awake long before Lewis wakes him up. The bed is positioned beneath the window and although it’s closed, the cold seeps through the thin glass. Despite the chill he’s bathing in sweat. The clothes he didn’t bother to get out of before he fell asleep stick to his body. Occasionally he hears footsteps outside his door - some have the sound of high heels, others the heavy tread of the male orderlies. Maybe it’s his imagination but he swears he can hear muffled cries coming from somewhere. He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying awake, staring at the ceiling, but eventually he hears footsteps that stop at his door, the jingling of a key chain and then the door swings open. 

Lewis is a short man in his fifties, with the face of a man who doesn't care about hiding his indifference about the world anymore. He raises a brow when he makes eye contact with Baxter, surprised to see he’s already up.

“You’re up. I thought teenagers were supposed to sleep in late.”

Baxter doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he simply doesn’t. He grabs his glasses from the nightstand and walks to the door, still quite groggy and disoriented, but Lewis stops him by placing a hand on his chest. 

“Grab some clothes first, pal." 

Baxter widens his eyes and looks at him in complete bewilderment. Just to be sure, he looks down to confirm he's wearing clothes.

Lewis already looks tired. He mutters something under his breath about the night shift not briefing the new arrivals properly, and then turns his attention back to Baxter. "You're scheduled for morning showers, so grab some clean clothes from the closet and follow me." 

Baxter does as he's told. The whole walk to the showers he's making up increasingly improbable scenarios of what will happen. Maybe he’s gonna get hosed down, he’s heard people do that in insane asylums. He hopes he won’t get washed by Lewis - though knowing his luck, that’s not far fetched - figures that the first time someone touches his dick it would be a middle aged male nurse in a mental hospital.

When they arrive at what are presumably the showers Lewis explains the process to him. Baxter has five minutes to take a shower, dry off and get dressed before Lewis has to come marching in according to procedure. 

Compared to his wild speculations, it could have been a whole lot worse.

Mindful of the seconds ticking away, Baxter doesn't waste time looking at his surroundings. There's only one shower faucet - the one for heat control is absent. He turns the one available to the furthest degree. The jet of water that gets produced is weak and cold. He scrubs himself with a rough washcloth lathered in scentless soap. The whole experience is supremely uncomfortable and Baxter is done in record time. He gets dressed in identical looking clothes as yesterday, but these don't reek of sweat. 

Lewis doesn't say anything when Baxter reappears from the shower, simply walks with him to the dining hall.

Once again, Baxter is momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer amount of sensation he's bombarded with. He stops walking forward for a moment and tries to pull himself together. Reminds himself to focus. He needs to behave well enough to not draw attention to himself. He sits down at a table occupied by two other patients - one is man with tan skin and dark brown hair that stares into the distance with glossy eyes, seemingly unaware of his surroundings and the other one is a skinny lady taht just mutters to herself about something Baxter doesn't understand. The situation does not remotely boost his appetite. He looks at the decked table: pints of milk, some cornflakes, slices of bread and boiled eggs. 

He should eat. Let the staff believe he's adapting without much trouble. 

He makes himself a bowl of cornflakes and forces himself to eat, even though he isn't hungry. He does his best to ignore the other patients. After a few bites he's afraid he'll throw up if he eats more.   


Baxter looks around the dining hall, feeling lost. He has no idea what to do. Ideally he would go back to his room, but he saw that the doors to the hall were locked. He spots Lewis leaning back in his chair, reading the newspaper. The man seems pretty lenient when it comes to rules, so maybe Baxter has a shot with him. Awkwardly he makes his way over to him.

“Can I go back to my room?"

"No. You have to stay here in the break room." He doesn't even look up from the newspaper.

Baxter presses on, determined to have at least something to keep his mind off things. “Can I at least grab a book I brought with me?” 

Lewis sighs, fold up his newspaper, gets up and walks to the doors. When Baxter isn’t following him, he looks over his shoulder. “Do you want that book or not?”

Baxter nods and follows Lewis back to his cell. The situation seems far less chaotic compared to yesterday. The situation is still terrible, but he feels more in control. He's adapting, learning to compromise to save himself the worst.

* * *

  


“Hey look, haven’t seen him before.”

Angel turns his head to where Cherri is staring. Politeness or subtleties aren’t main concerns anymore. He first notices Husk, the orderly who’s always in need of a shave and the only one around that actually seems to treat the patients as people. But trailing behind Husk like a lost puppy, is a new face. A kid, 19 tops, looks around the hall with big frightened eyes from behind a pair of thick glasses. His black hair is greasy and his skin has an unhealthy grayish tint, like he doesn’t go outside much. Add onto that his skittish movements and short stature, he gives Angel the impression of a rat. 

“Junkie.” Angel says with the confidence of a man that knows his way around drug addicts, not even bothering to look back at his friend.

Cherri scrunches up her face. “No way. I bet he’s got some sort of weird fetish. Maybe his mom found some magazines hidden under his mattress.”

“You’re projecting, sweetheart.” 

Likely she would have come up with an insult even Angel would be impressed with if she wasn’t shoveling scrambled eggs into her mouth. Due to the circumstances Cherri settles for giving him the finger.

Angel watches the boy, now abandoned by Husk, as he looks around helplessly before seeing the armchairs in the corner and making a beeline for them. He drops himself in the first chair he reaches, tucks his legs in close to his chest and buries his face in the pages of the massive college book he brought with him into the hall. Angel can see the way the book shakes in sync with the trembling hands that hold it. He feels some sympathy for the guy. He knows firsthand how hard it is to spend the first days of withdrawal locked up. 

He looks down at his plate. The scent of scrambled eggs and toast isn’t appealing at all today. 

Today Charlotte Magne, darling daughter of the hospital’s most esteemed psychiatrist, will resume her cutting-edge treatment of Angel’s condition. 

Angel thinks throwing his food-filled plate in that bitch’s face would be very therapeutic.

* * *

Angel vomits into the bucket Magne handed to him. It's not much. Most of the content in his stomach has been emptied earlier when Magne applied the emetic. He pants. He feels dirty. He avoids Magne's eyes. She's silent, patiently waiting for him to give the green light. 

He looks up with his jaw clenched  


"I'm ready."

She nods. The image shown on the projector screen changes to another. A muscular man, nearly fully naked, lays on his side and smiles to the camera with a seductive grin. He hears Magne turning the valve of the IV-drip.

Angel has a few seconds to appreciate the photo before the emetic reaches his bloodstream and he vomits again. 

(The cravings receded months ago, but his desire for something to knock him out hits him with full force. Maybe they'll give him methadone if he asks. Just something to keep his mind of things.)   


Angel knows, rationally, that Magne isn't to blame for this situation. He knows that the young intern only wants to make things better- to make him better. He's reminded of that every time he sees those big blue eyes filled with pity. Knowing that makes it worse. He can't even get angry at her without feeling guilty. It was easier when he knew how to feel about his therapist.  


In Magne senior's case for example, he feels his deep hatred is completely justified. His grip on the bucket tightens as he thinks of everything that proud motherfucker put him through. It could be worse, Angel reminds himself. This is barely worth complaining about compared to the other shit he was put through. He just needs to get through this. He gives a tense nod and Magne renews the photo projected.

It could be worse, he reminds himself as he looks at pictures of suggestively clad men.

It could be worse, he reminds himself as he heaves up bile.

It could be worse, he reminds himself as he thinks back to electric current coursing through his brain and contracting his muscles.

It could be worse, he tells himself, it could be a whole lot fucking worse.

* * *

Today's session went about as well as Charlie expected; a slow, painful process that demanded a lot of energy from both Anthony and herself. For Anthony it was a grueling experience on its own; for Charlie it was awful to see a patient suffer, knowing that the payoff would be minimal. She's anxiously pacing back and forth in her dad's office while he examines her notes of the session.

He opens his mouth to say something but before he can speak Charlie talks over him. "It's still early into treatment, but I seriously doubt aversion therapy alone will be productive for Anthony. His sexual deviation can't be treated simply by curbing symptoms : he needs psychotherapy so the root of it can be found."

"You've told me that before. And wrote it in your notes." Lucius speaks in matter of fact tone, not moved by his daughter's appeal. He puts Charlie's notebook away and gestures for her to sit down. Charlie feels her cheeks glow with embarassment, ashamed and frustrated that her proposal was shot down so quickly, but sits down anyway. Her father continues when she's seated, in the patient, fatherly tone Charlie has known since childhood. 

"We have tried psychoanalysis. We have tried every treatment proven to be successful yet Anthony consistently refuses to cooperate with his therapy - _let me finish_ -," he says when he sees Charlie is about to interrupt him again, "It's fruitless to expend resources and energy if he isn't willing to do his part for his recovery. Electroshock therapy was a last resort, and even that was not enough. I cannot overstate how resistant that man is to anything that forces him to acknowledge his own shortcomings."

Charlie's face is still red but now out of anger rather than shame. "But he isn't resisting - the last two sessions he has been nothing short of cooperative. It's a horrible experience for him, yet _he chooses to participate anyway_." She's gotten out of her chair and leans forward on the desk with balled fists. Lucius leans ever so slightly back in his chair, impressed by Charlie's show of faith.

He's quiet for a moment but eventually he concedes.

"If Anthony's behavior improves, I will reconsider changing his plan." It's clear to Charlie this is as far as her father is willing to go. She stands up straight and smooths down non-existent creases on her skirt. Her father's compromise is a minute victory, but a victory nonetheless. 

Motivated by the possibility of improving Anthony's situation, Charlie begins drafting a treatment plan the moment she gets home.

* * *

_ Baxter can feel himself slipping. Waves pull him under and he can’t resist the force of the unending ocean dragging him downwards to a dark, cold, deep. There is nothing. Perhaps he should be relieved no monstrosity has come to swallow him up yet but the absolute loneliness devours him with more force than lovecraftian horrors ever could - this is a monster from within that feeds on his despair like a maggot on rotten flesh, until it will burst out of his chest and unleash its ire on everything in its path.  _

_ Yet until then, all that keeps him company is the water crushing his lungs. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was difficult, ngl. it's shorter than I intended it to be, but I hope y'all will agree with me that a decent short chapter is preferable to a long one with unnecessary and clunky scenes. Thanks for reading and lemme know what you think of this chapter!


End file.
